


Wolf In The Fold

by Bardicvoice



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-13
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bardicvoice/pseuds/Bardicvoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An explosive hostage situation takes Bodie on a walk down memory lane and reunites him with an unexpected friend from the past. How can high school dropout Bodie quote Keats, when we never see him with a book?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf In The Fold

**Author's Note:**

> _No infringement of copyrights or trademarks held by Avenger Mark 1 Productions or London Weekend Television is intended._

_"You left school at fourteen. You joined the Merchant Navy. And then you jumped ship three years later at Dakar. You've been a bouncer in an African club, you've been gun running for both sides during the Congo wars, a mercenary soldier in Angola, Biafra, some dubious activities in Jordan, and then you came back here to join the Army, where you became a sergeant with the Paras, then you were seconded to the S.A.S., and now you're in CI5." _

Attorney Geraldine Mather to Bodie at the Board of Inquiry, _"The Rack" _

  
** **

* * *

"_At the airport. Someone called my name. I swear it was Bodie."_  
"_The last I heard, he was rotting in a Congo gaol."_  
"_Somebody told me he was dead."_

Snippets of dialogue among Krivas's gang,_ "Where The Jungle Ends"_

  
** **

* * *

**Wolf In The Fold**

_Copyright 1998, Bardicvoice_

Bodie spun the silver Capri to a stop amidst the clutter of panda cars and emergency vehicles. He and Doyle darted from the car to join Cowley, standing in the shelter of a van.

"Finally decided to join us?" Cowley inquired archly. "I thought I said immediately."

"Sorry, sir," Bodie said. "But you did have us clear cross town, you know." He glanced at his partner, and the two of them both stole glimpses around the corner of the van, seeing the barricaded hospital emergency entrance and the debris of a fitfully burning panel truck accordioned into a car.

"What have we got?" Doyle asked.

"Most of your missing ordinance, apparently. A bomb detonated in Leicester Square thirty minutes ago. Immediately after, an unknown number of gunmen, by all accounts heavily armed, seized the casualty room here and demanded treatment for two of their number."

"Got a little careless and blew themselves up, hey?" Bodie smiled unpleasantly. "Naughty, naughty."

"Wages of sin," Doyle agreed, but Cowley was not amused.

"Which are now being paid by the innocent staff and patients of St. Michael's!" The harsh reminder caused both of the younger men to look down, apologetic and abashed, and Cowley relented. "We don't know how many hostages they have in there, but they have already made clear that they're willing to kill. They shot a security guard who got in their way. We saw that much, before they pulled the blinds. They've offered no communication beyond shouting warnings that we're to keep away or they'll detonate explosives throughout the ground floor."

"There can't be enough of them to hold the whole building," Bodie observed. "Look there — we could get onto the roof from that building next door, go down inside."

"Aye — and provoke a bloodbath."

"Not a strike force, sir — I mean one or two men. Undercover observers, to blend in with the people inside."

"We could radio a description of the layout, be on hand for a distraction when you rush the place," Doyle chimed in.

It was an audacious plan, one that could only work if they went undiscovered, and Cowley had no way to know whether the terrorists inside would already be on guard against such an attempt. But if they didn't try it swiftly, before the terrorists had time to fully establish their perimeters, there would be no opportunity. The roof was too logical a place to mount an assault for it to be left unguarded for long.

"Very well. But be careful! Those innocent people are your responsibility!" The partners were off and running before he'd finished speaking. He borrowed a set of binoculars from a uniformed officer, and waited. The curly head and the dark one showed over the roof of the building next door faster than he expected; he trained the binoculars on them and watched as first Bodie and then Doyle jumped from the higher roof down to the hospital one, each vanishing from sight as they dropped and rolled. He took out his R/T and waited, imagining their cat-footed run across the roof to the access door. Bodie would probably be the one to pick the lock and disable the alarm; his SAS training and experience gave him the edge over Doyle in this kind of situation. He held his breath, picturing how they would set up to rush the door once it was open, hoping there would be no one there but intending to take out any guard before he could take them or give an alarm. The minutes stretched out, and his straining ears heard nothing, no outcry, no gunshots, no ...

The R/T in his hand beeped, and Bodie's whisper sounded oddly loud.

"Three-seven to Alpha: we're in. Don't call us, we'll call you."

Cowley blew out an exasperated breath, but grinned. Bodie was entitled to his little jokes, as long as things kept going right. He settled back to wait, knowing this would take some time, and tried not to wish that he could be with his boys.

* * *

_"My God." The young nursing sister covered her nose and mouth with her hand, looking appalled at the eight bodies dumped carelessly in the back of the old truck. The men were haggard and emaciated, almost naked, and they stank. Most of them showed the marks of wounds and beatings, and all of them were unconscious. One stirred slightly, moaning, and the older nun, a birdlike woman of sixty, reached out to gently stroke his filthy, sweat-matted hair._

_"He had nothing to do with this, except perhaps giving us the grace to bring them ease. Even if only to die in peace." Her lilting Irish voice took on a sardonic note. "Freeing dying men from prison as a humanitarian gesture; another meaningless chapter in the Congo civil war." She shook her head. "Come, Sister. We can clean them, tend them; perhaps the Lord will grant that we save a life." She cupped the wounded man's dirty cheek in her hand. "And we will pray for them. God knows their names, even if we don't."_

* * *

Bodie stuffed the R/T into the pocket of the white lab coat, and then pulled the Browning from his discarded shoulder holster and tucked it into his belt at the small of his back, tugging at the lab coat to make sure it hung free and covered the weapon. He bundled the holster into his jacket and stuffed them into the laundry cart beneath the jumble of towels and uniforms. Doyle had found a wrinkled blue orderly's jacket that didn't look too out of place over his jeans, and did a similar job of hiding his gun.

"How d'you want to play it?" Doyle asked.

"Split up, I think. Stairs at both ends of the building — you take one, I take the other. Try to keep out of their hands."

"Rendezvous in twenty minutes, men's room, second floor?"

"You're on."

Bodie cracked the door of the utility room they'd borrowed for refuge and checked the corridor. Everything seemed strangely ordinary; he guessed that the terrorists had sealed off the ground floor only. This high up, people wouldn't likely even have heard the gunshots down in casualty, and the hospital staff would not have broadcast anything to alarm the patients on other floors. Lower down, the situation would be very different. He gave Doyle a nod.

"See you downstairs, sunshine."

* * *

_"The last of the others just died, Sister Agnes. He never regained consciousness, either."_

_"May he rest in peace." The older nun crossed herself and looked up from her vigil beside the bed of the man she had touched in the truck. Washed clean and carefully shaven, his skin was white beneath the bruises, startlingly pale against the almost black seal-brown of his hair, and he was young, barely over twenty. Despite a black eye and split lip, lines of pain, and the sweat of fever, he was also handsome, and the older nun smothered a knowing smile as she watched the young nursing sister examining his face with curious interest. The younger woman flushed in sudden embarrassment and hastily averted her eyes when she noticed the nun's amused regard._

_"I have hope for this one," the nun said softly. "I don't think they had him more than a couple of months; he was in better physical condition than the others, even with that infected bullet wound. A mercenary soldier, I would guess, probably with Tsombe's forces, or he'd not have been in prison."_

_The younger sister drew back, distaste replacing her previous interest._

_"A mercenary ... then he's no better than the rest of them, than the ones we got him from."_

_"'Judge not, lest ye be judged,'" Sister Agnes quoted mildly, and the younger woman quelled beneath the gentle reproof. The older nun laid her hand along the unconscious man's face. "Right now, he is simply a starved and wounded man, a stranger in need, a being of God's creation whom we may help. Whatever else he may be is not for us to say."_

_"Yes, Sister. I'm sorry."_

_"Go, then. Prepare some broth, keep it ready in the kitchen. If he wakes — when he wakes — he will need fluids and nourishment, just a little at a time until his system can start to recover." Her voice dropped further. "I wish we had proper facilities to put him on intravenous support. His life is more in God's hands than ours."_

_"But it would be anyway, even in a proper hospital, wouldn't it, Sister?"_

_"Cheeky girl!" Sister Agnes chided, but she was smiling. "Get on with you, now."_

_The younger woman bowed and left, and Sister Agnes turned back to her patient. His head shifted restlessly against her hand, and she stroked his cheekbone with her thumb. With her other hand, she lifted and clasped one of his._

_"Your son is suffering here, Lord," she whispered. "Seven of his brothers have died today. I pray You, if it is Your will, grant this boy life. Let him find his way out of darkness and pain. I would not see him die, Lord. Not him, too. Can we not save one lamb from the slaughter - or at least one young wolf cub?" _

* * *

Breathing silently through his mouth, Bodie flattened himself against the doorjamb and edged sideways until he could peer through the long narrow window in the stairwell door. Frightened looking people sat lined up along the corridor wall, a mix of hospital staff and evident civilians. Two men in ski masks and camouflage fatigues patrolled the hall, holding Uzis. As one passed a sobbing woman, he snarled at her, threatening, and Bodie began to pull back to avoid being seen.

"There's no need for that, young man."

The vibrant Irish voice carried even through the heavy steel door, and Bodie froze; then edged back to glance through the window again. An elderly but spry little nun had stepped from one of the rooms into the corridor, confronting the gunman with no trace of fear, and then bent down to comfort the woman. As she changed position, her eyes crossed Bodie's. She didn't hesitate or react, just continued with her motion, but he knew she had seen him.

And she had recognized him, as surely as he recognized her.

"Sister Agnes," he whispered.

* * *

_Every time the young man roused halfway, coming close enough to consciousness not to choke, Sister Agnes gave him spoonfuls of broth or warm water dosed with her limited store of analgesics and antibiotics. When the fever gave way to chills and pneumonia, she propped him in a sitting position to ease his breathing, to keep him from drowning in the fluid in his lungs, and piled him with blankets. During the worst of it, she sat at the head of his bed and drew him up against her chest to enfold him in her own warmth, rocking him gently against the pain and supporting him against racking spasms of agonized coughing. Seven days after he had arrived at the mission, he finally slipped into normal sleep. On the morning of the eighth day he opened midnight-blue eyes still dulled with pain and fatigue but nonetheless sensible and aware, and his first sight was Sister Agnes's tired but brilliant smile._

_"Praise be to God," she said, and her Irish brogue made music of the prayer. "Welcome back to the land of the living."_

_"I don't — believe in God." His voice was rusty from disuse and hoarse from coughing, and his eyes were wary and far too old for his face, but none of that dimmed her smile._

_"You don't have to believe in Him for Him to believe in you," she said, her tone rich and amused, redolent with irony. "Witness that you're here."_

_"Where — am I?"_

_"The Catholic mission, Kisangana." She saw the lack of comprehension in his face, and elaborated. "There's a truce on. Mobutu's government released dying prisoners from its gaols in a gesture of support. You were given to us." Something shifted in his eyes and she quickly reached out to grip his hands in hers. "You are safe here, I promise. You decided to live, and we saw no reason to tell. When you're strong enough, you'll be free to go. We'll see you safely out of the Congo. On my oath before God, I swear to that."_

_He relaxed, but only the merest fraction, still a wild animal leery of a trap. She gave his hands another reassuring squeeze, and then released them. She picked up a glass of water from the nightstand, lifting his head with her other hand to help him drink. He managed a few sips before weakness and exhaustion ambushed him again. She lowered his head back to the pillow, but did not take her hand away, instead stroking his hair gently._

_"I'm Sister Agnes. If there is anything you want or need, you have only to ask. We are your family, your sisters and brothers in Christ, and all we have is yours."_

_"I'm not — Catholic."_

_"That doesn't matter."_

_"Why?"_

_She raised an eyebrow and smiled._

_"Have you never heard the parable of the Good Samaritan? It matters not who or what you are; you are a child of God, whether you know it or not, and you are hurt and sick, and in need. What we can do to help, we must. That is who we are, and what we believe. Rest now. You are safe, my son, and in time you will be well."_

_She watched the play of emotions on his face, pain and terrible weariness at war with fear and uncertainty and distrust, and saw the moment when fatigue crumbled the walls of caution. His eyes closed and he swallowed hard, then he took a breath and met her calm gaze._

_"Bodie," he said. "Me name's Bodie."_

_She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the forehead, smiling at his startled reflex attempt to shy away from the unexpected touch._

_"Peace be with you, Bodie. Sleep now. We'll talk again when you're stronger." The wary hesitation shadowing his eyes touched her heart. "I will stay until you sleep. And someone will be here when you wake, if there is anything you need. You have nothing to fear."_

_"'M not afraid," he said automatically, his eyes closing and voice slurring on the words as sleep began to overwhelm his defenses, and she smiled for the lie, still stroking his hair._

_"Of course you aren't," she said softly, knowing that he already couldn't hear. "Sleep, young wolfling. Sleep without dreams."_

* * *

His gun was in hand the moment he heard the footsteps, and when the washroom door opened he swung around the corner, gun levelled, to find himself staring down the barrel of Doyle's weapon. They both exhaled and grinned sheepishly as they lowered their guns and slipped the safeties on.

"What kept you?" Bodie asked.

"Got some of the staff organized, moving people to the higher floors. There's no way to evacuate everyone, not with the elevators blocked off, but if the first floor goes ..."

Bodie nodded.

"I didn't see anything rigged, but all I could scan was the corridor. Didn't see anything wired to the stairwell doors, though, so we've still got access."

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That they blew up their stock and bombing this place's a bluff? Yeah. It's a good chance. But we've got to be sure."

"Cowley's not going to like it."

"_I_ don't much like it either, but we don't have much choice. We may be holding an ace, though." He was pulling out his R/T as he spoke, and he clicked the transmit button before Doyle could do more than raise an eyebrow in question. "Three-seven to Alpha."

"Report, Bodie!" The snap in Cowley's voice made both of them look up and share a grin. The old man clearly had not enjoyed the wait, and wanted nothing so much as to be in the middle of it with them.

"Targets are all on the ground floor. I make at least three, probably more, armed and able-bodied —" He raised an eyebrow at Doyle, who nodded assent. " — Uzis and handguns. Fatigues and ski masks. No sign of explosives, but we couldn't see the outer doors or into the rooms. The stairwells are clear, but they've blocked the elevators, propped the doors open. At least thirty hostages, mostly sitting along the main corridor. Unknown number of hostages and targets in rooms off the hallway." He hesitated fractionally and licked his lips, meeting Doyle's eyes. "I know one of the hostages, sir. She recognized me." Doyle's eyebrows shot up and his expression was priceless, a cross between surprise, resignation, and a suggestive leer.

"Problem, three-seven?"

"On the contrary, sir. She seems to be holding the lid on, keeping everyone calm." He made a face at Doyle. "Her name is Sister Agnes. She's a Catholic nun, a nursing sister. She saved my life the last time we met; I'd kind of like to return the favor."

"The old lady with her Irish up?" Doyle's startled eyes filled with sudden speculation.

"What do you propose, three-seven?"

"Infiltration, sir. Getting inside is the only way we can be sure of the situation."

"Four-five?"

"I agree with Bodie, sir. But getting word back out won't be easy."

There was a moment's pause, and Bodie and Doyle could almost hear Cowley thinking, examining all the angles, looking for an edge.

"You said the Sister recognized you, Bodie? How did that happen?"

"Caught a glimpse of me through the door. She didn't give me away, and no one else noticed."

"What would she think when she saw you?"

"I — can't say, sir. It's been a long time: Africa. Kisangana, in the Belgian Congo. Call it Zaire, now." Memories darkened his eyes and Doyle held utterly still, almost holding his breath not to interfere with the unexpected opening of another rare door into his partner's checkered past. "I was a merc then, gunrunning. I haven't seen or been in touch with her since." Doyle saw something shift in his face, lightening his expression and waking a tiny smile. "But she'll trust me, sir; I'm certain of it. She'll give me cover, no question."

"You're asking my blessing on one hell of a chance, three-seven."

To Doyle's surprise, Bodie frankly grinned.

"She already gave me her blessing, sir. And Hell couldn't stand against Sister Agnes."

Despite the hesitation that followed, Doyle was certain of what Cowley's answer would be. The siege had to be broken, and quickly. Too many people were at risk to cavil at taking a chance with one agent's life.

"How will you get word out?"

"I'll go in armed, and leave the R/T open. If they search me, the jig's up — but I'm betting on Sister. Now she's seen me, she'll be expecting something. If it hits the fan —" He shrugged. "Doyle will be watching. I'll pass on whatever I can."

Cowley's sigh was clearly audible.

"Do it then, three-seven. But the safety of the hostages is paramount. Remember that."

"Yes, sir. Out."

Doyle made a throat-cutting motion, and Bodie obediently turned off the R/T, raising an eyebrow at his partner's concern.

"You're betting a lot on one old lady," Doyle observed. "She doesn't know what you are or why you're here, and besides — she's a nun. What's she going to do to cover for you? Last I knew, nuns weren't big on telling lies."

"She's as committed to saving lives as she is to saving souls, mate. This'll be her second chance at mine."

"Bodie —"

His partner cut him off before he could even form the rest of his thought, much less say it.

"I _trust_ her, Ray."

Whatever he'd expected, that wasn't it. Sheer astonishment held Doyle in place. Trust was not a word his partner used lightly, and he couldn't remember ever hearing any other unqualified declaration of it, not even to him. He felt an irrational stab of jealousy and something of it must have shown on his face, because he saw Bodie change his mind and continue, when he had clearly intended at first just to stop and leave it there. His voice was unusually soft.

"I was dead, near as damn-all. Rebel arms deal went wrong. I got shot, wound up in a Congo gaol. Couple months of that, and there wasn't much left of me. Dumped me out with the rest of the garbage when they figured I was gone. Sister Agnes took me in, brought me back. When I could move, she smuggled me out of the country." His lips twitched. "As a priest."

Doyle had to grin — _that_ image was just too much. But he sobered quickly since Bodie stayed serious.

"I owe her, Doyle. And she knows me well enough to expect that I'll do something here to pay her back. I won't let her down, and she won't fail me." As if aware that he'd gotten too intense, he did smile then. "That's gospel."

"I hope you're right, mate, 'cause I won't be much backup on this one."

"Enough." His face lit with a brief grin. "Sister calls on saints and angels. You'll have plenty of company."

"Yeah — but can they shoot?"

Bodie quirked both eyebrows and shrugged dismissively.

"Give you — what, five minutes? — to get into place?"

"Good enough." Doyle pulled out his gun, checked to be sure he had one up the spout, and returned it to its hiding place. He stopped at the door and gave his partner one last fleeting grin.

"Saints and angels aren't your kind'a company, mate; don't make the mistake of tryin' to join 'em, eh?"

"Not on your life," Bodie said, but Doyle had already gone. "Or mine either, for that matter," Bodie muttered, and then keyed the R/T. "Three-seven to Alpha: I'm on my way. Leaving this channel open, so for God's sake don't call me."

* * *

"'La Belle Dame sans Merci thee hath in thrall,'" _Sister Agnes quoted over his shoulder, and Bodie could hear the smile in her voice as he looked up from the book in his hands. It was a measure of either his trust or his abiding fatigue that he'd neither heard her steps nor startled at the realization of her presence. He wasn't sure whether that was good or bad; that kind of inattention outside these walls would get him killed, like as not._

_But he smiled for her and inclined his head, since the rest of him wasn't in shape for a gallant bow._

"La Belle Dame,_ yes, but definitely not_ sans merci_," he said. He closed the slim volume of Keats around the finger that held his place, and looked up into her merry eyes._

_"La, such a silver tongue he's found, and in so short a time! I'd never heard tell the Blarney Stone had imbued books in Kisangana!"_

_"I've nought else to do," he said, and despite his best intentions, weary frustration edged his tone with complaint. She smiled more gently at him, and sat in the chair beside the cot that at least freed him from the boredom of his stuffy room to sit under an awning in the open air._

_"Give it time, Bodie. Your strength will come back, and your energy with it. The healing now is taking all you have." She rested one hand lightly on his wrist. "Learn patience, since you must. And read, since you can. I'm sorry we've nothing more lively to offer you."_

_"Couldn't deal with it if you did," he admitted wryly. He turned the book in his hands. "Anyway — this stuff isn't as dead as I thought it would be. Never had much call to look at poetry before."_

_"And with theology your only other choice, I can see why Browning and Keats win out over St. Augustine." Her teasing made him smile, and she patted his hand. "Don't worry, wolfling: you'll be well before you exhaust the secular in our little library. You'll not be forced to take refuge from boredom in Descartes."_

_"Might not be so bad."_

_"We'll not put that to the test!" Her smile faded, and he tensed in automatic reaction, sensing bad news in her mood change. She shook her head very slightly and flexed her hand on his wrist, silently chiding him for the reflex, but her voice sobered. "The truce failed last night, no surprise. There's no immediate danger here, but if the tensions rise, we may need to move swiftly."_

_"That's a joke — I can't even make it the length of the church," he interjected bitterly. "May as well just set me out the door."_

_"Be hush! You'll not be taken. I'm not wasting all the effort we've put into you. You show me a Catholic compound that doesn't have a bolthole or two, and I'll show you a place the Irish've never been! We're well set to hide you. The room you're in has a trapdoor in the floor. Ahh, never sussed that out, did you? And once you can move, well — I've been in touch with a friend or two. Father McCabe will loan you his name and his papers. They'll get you only to Angola, but they'll see you well out of here."_

_The book sat forgotten on the blanket in his lap. He knew that he was staring, but he couldn't help himself; the enormity of what she was saying stopped the breath in his throat, and he had to swallow twice before he could speak._

_"Sister — you're taking one hell of a chance. You, and the mission, and Father McCabe — whoever he is — you don't even know if I'm worth saving, much less worth the price you could pay." She opened her mouth, but he raised a hand to cut her off and kept speaking in a voice clipped and harsh, looking away into the past so he wouldn't have to watch her face change as she learned the truth. "I'm a mercenary, Sister. A gunrunner, at the moment. I wound up in gaol when an arms deal went sour. My buyers decided not to pay and shot me instead, left me for the cops to find. I'd've shot them first if I'd been faster. I'm nothing you'd have welcomed if I'd knocked on your door instead of being dumped there."_

_Sister Agnes put her fingers across his lips to silence him._

_"All life is sacred, Bodie, and all men worth saving. You've made war your business and I'll confess, that's not something I condone — but I've not lived your life or shared your soul, and it's not for me to stand in judgment on you."_

_"Don't need any help for that, do I? I can judge myself," he said, and his tone was bleak._

_"Can you now?" She put a hand beneath his chin and lifted his head, forcing his eyes to meet hers. Whatever he'd thought to see, censure or disappointment or distaste, it wasn't there. "Why did you just tell me what you are, and so baldly? Why confess to things that shame you now, because of where you sit? You judge yourself too harshly, lad, and make the mistake of believing that God does the same."_

_"I'm not a believer, Sister. I'm not part of your flock. I'm a fighter; I have to be. It's all I know, all I've ever been good at. I'll never be one of your lambs."_

_"And did not God make the wolf and the lion, as surely as the rabbit and the lamb? He knows what He made of you, Bodie, and He'll not expect you to be other than you are." She studied him in silence for a moment. "You could have accepted what we've done and kept silent about yourself. None here would ask from where you came, or why. That you could not — that you think yourself unworthy of our help and warn us of it — is your judgment upon yourself, not God's upon you. And not mine."_

_He struggled to make sense of what she was saying, but the concepts were alien to him._

_"Sister — I can't pay you back. I can't do, or be, or whatever — whatever it is you want."_

_Her smile didn't mock him, but there was mild amusement in it nonetheless._

_"I want nothing, except for you to be well and depart in peace. That much, you can do. No one is keeping accounts here; you owe us nothing. There are no debts between us."_

_He shook his head._

_"That's not the way the world works, Sister. It's all payback, and I owe you big."_

_She shook her head and laughed as she stood up, and then in the gesture he had learned was habit with her, bent to kiss him on the brow._

_"I've been in the world far longer than you, wolfling, and I can tell you, Shakespeare had it right: there is far more in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in your philosophy. But if you must conceive a debt, pay it thus: live so that, when next we meet, your judgment of yourself matches mine of you."_

* * *

Bodie paused for a moment just inside the stairwell door and took a deep breath, calling up the relaxed calm at the heart of his martial arts training. Beyond the narrow window, the view remained the same: frightened hostages huddled on the floor, the occasional glimpse of a restless gunman cradling an Uzi across his chest. _Don't startle them and get yourself shot, old son,_ he thought, and then he cradled the files he had grabbed from the upstairs nursing station against his chest in his left hand while he opened the door with his right, making sure that both hands would be clearly visible and obviously innocuously occupied. He was keenly aware of the gun pressing into the small of his back beneath the lab coat, and of the weight of the R/T in his left pocket.

Several of the hostages gasped and startled at his appearance, and the nearest gunman whipped around and brought his Uzi to bear as he heard the sounds and saw his partner at the other end of the corridor bringing his own weapon up. In the back of his mind, Bodie chided them for sloppiness; the man on the far side should have turned to pay attention to the doors there, the stairwell and the entryway, not let himself be distracted into leaving his back wide open. He should have left Bodie to his partner and covered his own doors, but the two terrorists weren't working as a team; they both kept their weapons trained on Bodie. Doyle could have come through the far door and dropped them both before they even knew he was there.

"'Ere — stop there! Hands up, hands up!" The nearest terrorist's voice was very young, Irish, and breathless, cracking with tension and halfway a shout. He rushed Bodie — _too fast, old son, not hardly professional, and you're blocking your mate's line of fire, too_ — even as the agent released the door and hesitantly put his arms up, artfully nearly losing hold of the papers in his left hand. Bodie hoped that his face showed fear and surprise and uncertainty, or at least something that the man would take as an appropriate reaction. The man grabbed his right arm and yanked him forward, flinging him face-first up against the wall.

"Where'd you come from, eh? Who are you? What're you doing here?"

Bodie felt the man's free hand start a slide down his left side — _shit, don't search me, idiot_ — and he started to half turn toward the man, moving to shift the radio in his pocket and the gun at his back further from the man's searching fingers, tentatively proffering the papers in his left hand. His fervent prayer not to be caught out at the start helped to put a convincing tremor in his voice, which the terrorist only added to by slamming him back into the wall again.

"Lab — lab reports," Bodie stammered. "I — brought the lab reports ..." He let his voice trail off in seemingly panicked confusion as he continued to hold out the papers, and for a suspended second he wondered if his plan was as totally insane as he suddenly believed. The muzzle of the Uzi was practically in his face, and looked about the size of a mortar.

And then he got the greatest proof in his life of the existence of God.

"God in Heaven, what's this, then? What are you doing to Doctor Bodie, young man? Let him be, let him be!"

Sister Agnes bustled down the corridor in a surprisingly quick swirl of long, heavy skirted habit, somehow insinuating herself between Bodie and the terrorist, one hand reaching fearlessly to push the gun aside. The top of her head didn't even reach Bodie's chin, but the energy she radiated made her seem larger. The terrorist took a step back, and Bodie had the sudden quick impression of a guilty schoolboy backing down from an outraged teacher.

"No one's — no one's supposed to be coming in here, Sister," the man said plaintively, and Bodie had to fight not to grin. _But the dog ate me homework, Sister ..._ "We said ..."

"Aye, and how do you expect us to do our work of saving lives without the tools we need? The good Doctor works in our laboratory. How can we give blood if we don't test for the right type? How can we know what drugs your friends may be allergic to, if we can't check? Out of the way, laddie, and let this man pass, if your friends matter to you at all!"

The young terrorist seemed at a loss, and shot a desperately questioning glance down toward the man at the other end. _Now we know who's more senior out here ..._ The other nodded hesitantly, and just then a third man stepped out from a room midway down the hall. Although he was dressed identically to the others, with nothing to distinguish him visually, something about him brought Bodie up on the balls of his feet: a sense of power, of threat, an indefinable aura of _leader_.

"What is it now?" the man demanded, and his voice was heavy, with a pronounced Irish accent. _Are you processing all the IRA files yet, Cowley? That's two masked Irish with guns._

The young terrorist stepped to one side with a blatantly apparent show of deference, and strove for a military tone.

"Just a doc from the lab," he said.

Feeling the leader's eyes on him, Bodie was certain this man was the danger. He had the practiced, professional edge the other two lacked. Bodie tried to project harmlessness, shrinking back a little. _Don't ask, don't tell — just assume he's searched me. Come on, make this one mistake, I won't ask for any more!_ Even Sister Agnes didn't move or speak, waiting almost breathlessly in the balance as if fearful of tipping it the wrong way, but Bodie could sense the leashed force of her, and guessed that she was praying more intently than even he was wishing.

"All right, then," the man said with ill grace. "If he's one of yours, Sister, then get him to work." He jerked his Uzi to beckon them toward him, and Sister Agnes took the papers from Bodie's hand and met his eyes with bright approval in her own. As if she could read his mind as easily as Doyle, she walked on his left side and put one arm around his back as if simply to encourage him on, but the moves were deliberate. He realized that she'd seen him turn away from the first guard's attempt at a frisking search and guessed that he was carrying things he didn't want found. She had put herself between those things and discovery, the same way that she had put herself between Bodie and the terrorist's gun. The same way she had once put herself between Bodie and an Angolan border guard. "Get on in there."

The terrorist leader stepped aside to let them pass into the room ahead of him. It was a central bay with two examining rooms opening off each side, and with the ambulance entrance in the middle of the far wall. Three of the rooms were occupied and bustling with activity, doctors and nurses tending to patients. Two of the still figures lying on gurneys wore camouflage fatigues; the third — _so the security guard isn't dead. Yet._ Four more camo-clad guards stood at uneasy attention, two on the ambulance doorway and two just outside treatment rooms. All of them betrayed nerves even through their masks and baggy fatigues with the way they twitched and shifted hands on weapons as the medical staff moved around them, doing incomprehensible things. _Why so many guards here, where they can't do a thing? Two of them should have sealed off the roof, or the stairwells at least, blocked Doyle and me off. Bloody amateurs ..._

Her hand still lightly against his back, Sister Agnes propelled Bodie into the examining room with the security guard, and steered him toward a rack of medical equipment. For one blessed moment, none of the terrorists were nearby; Bodie leaned to the side and bent down as if to look at an instrument readout, and whispered in the nun's ear.

"I'm CI5, Sister. Radio in my pocket. Describe what you can, anything that will help."

She displayed the same quick wits he remembered from years back, angling him toward a display screen and taking up a narration as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"The two bomb victims are both in a bad way: serious burns as well as explosive concussion leading to internal ruptures and bleeding. Here, we've drawn for blood type and cross-match ..." she was pointing with her left hand, but her right scrawled quick letters low in the air between them, and he obediently parroted them back at her.

"That's B-positive, that one, and zer—" he fumbled for a moment, then recovered, "O-positive on the other." He looked up, taking quick stock, but if anyone had noticed his bobble, they put it down to the same nerves plaguing everyone else in the room. Seeing him apparently occupied, and talking about the terrorist patients first, the leader had turned away. The rest of the medical staff were too shocked, too scared, or too busy to react to him at all, evidently dismissing him as just another piece they didn't understand and wouldn't have to deal with, as long as the nun was at his side. Sister Agnes flashed him an admonitory look, and he flushed despite himself, but she patted his hand.

"None of the other seven are hurt, or if they are, they've not shown us," the nun continued. _So I've seen them all, now; how do I tell Doyle the last five are all in here with me? And no explosives anywhere in sight ..._ "These two and the guard all belong in surgery, but they'll not let us move them. We've done what we can to stabilise them, but that's not enough. We'll lose them all if we don't operate soon."

"Then we'll have to persuade them, won't we?"

He gave her a tight little smile and then turned toward the terrorist leader. It was disconcerting to see only a pair of eyes behind the mask. Those eyes and the man's hands on the Uzi were his only clues to what was going on inside the leader's mind, and the knuckles of those hands were white with the force of his grip. _Won't take much to push him, one way or the other. Don't push the wrong way, or this could get ugly fast._

"Look, whoever you are, I don't know what you want, but you've got two mates here who're gonna die unless you let us take them up to surgery. We're not equipped to do what they need down here."

"No! We all stay together!"

"And what's the sense in that, mate? You've already lost. You five here, and the two out in the corridor — how're you going to get out of this, hey? All you've got are a lot of guns and two badly hurt people. You won't let us move your mates even to save their lives, you're surely not gonna be able to move 'em out of here. All you're doing is guaranteeing that these two will die, and for what?" _You've got all the layout I can give, Cowley; get ready._

"If they die, they won't be the only ones!"

"Oh, for Pete's sake ..."

"And how would killing innocent people help you?" Sister Agnes's voice cut across Bodie's impatient, undiplomatic frustration. "What wrongs would that right?" She left the leader to Bodie, and swept her eyes across the other four terrorists instead. Her voice gentled. "Have you not seen enough signs today that your path is wrong? A bomb you meant for others hurt none but you; open your hearts to what the Lord is saying. There is no case for bloodshed, for violence. There is no need either for your friends to die. Leave this, now. Put down your guns. We will care for your friends, and we will care for you."

"Like the British have always cared for the Irish? No chance, Sister!" The leader's voice was harsher than ever. Like Bodie, he'd seen his underlings exchanging glances, swayed by the nun's calming and not coincidentally Irish tones.

"As the Lord God has always cared for you!"

The leader laughed bitterly.

"Aye — such good care," he mocked. "How many of our people dead, and British troops on Irish soil? How much of our lands seized, and our birthrights stolen, and our churches burned, and our language suppressed? Such good care!"

"The people you really want to kill are some hundred years dead in their graves, mate!" Bodie exclaimed. "You can't keep fighting old battles."

"And what would you know of it?"

"I've been there!" Bodie flashed back without thinking, and then stopped short, betrayed by his own passions. _Yeah — as a British soldier on Belfast soil. Shut up, Bodie. That's not going to help. Bet Doyle's swearing at me about now ..._

Sister Agnes stepped between the two men even as the leader's eyes narrowed in speculation, and she reached back without looking to put a hand on Bodie's arm. Her voice was calm and even.

"Bodie is half-Irish, laddie; he understands. As do I. But he's right. The time for battles and guns is past. We've better ways to deal with injustice, now. And if you surrender now, before you've gone too far, then even your trial can be a forum for the greater cause. Don't throw that away for wanton, wholesale murder. If it's the Irish cause you really mean to serve, then do the right thing. Aught else serves only the Devil."

"Mick —" One of the others ventured the name, and then cleared his throat. "Maybe — maybe she's right? They're all around us, out there; looks like an army."

"Looks like Belfast," another muttered. "They'll shoot us down, an' they get the chance."

"No, they won't," Bodie said. "Put your guns down here; give them to the Sister to keep. Then stand right here, with all these folk around. Have them come in to bring you out. They'll not do anything to you, not with all these to witness." _And Cowley's damning me for a bloody interfering fool at the moment, but this could work. They're paranoid and mostly amateurs — we'd never get them to just walk out and surrender._

"I'll stand you surety," Sister Agnes said. "Before God, I promise; I'll go with you, wherever they take you, I'll see to it all's done as is proper."

The terrorists were exchanging looks, and the breathless silence held for a long count. Bodie didn't dare say another word, feeling the air charged with energy as likely to explode as go to ground. He kept his eyes on the leader, concentrating on steadiness and calm as if he could stand there motionless for hours.

What finally broke the tableau was a sudden flurry of activity in one of the examining rooms. Snatches of scary phrases passed between the members of the medical team working on one of the terrorists — "Damn, going into arrest ... Crash cart, now! ... Charge it ..." — and the guard who'd been most closely watching that room suddenly swept up a hand to pull off the ski mask and reveal a very young woman's face twisted with desperation as she turned on the leader.

"Mick, he's going to die! _Please_, let's do it, let them do what they need, don't let him die!" She jerked the safety on and threw her Uzi convulsively to one side.

Bodie felt the current sweep across the rest. Without looking around, he was aware that, one by one, they hesitantly pulled off their masks and lowered their weapons, all of them staring at the leader. In the background, the medical noises continued their meaningless urgency. Finally, slowly, the leader looked down at the Uzi in his hands, and then up to meet Bodie's eyes. Without looking away, he set the safety by touch, and wordlessly held the weapon out. Bodie took it, and then held out his empty left hand near the holstered pistol at the leader's waist. Never breaking eye contact, the man reached down, unflapped the holster, drew the gun, and laid it into Bodie's waiting hand.

"Tell your friends in the corridor," Bodie said softly. "It's over." Behind him, he heard the sounds of guns clattering to the floor, and Sister Agnes murmuring reassurances.

"Liam! Padraig! Lower your guns, come here — we're going to give it up." He pulled off his own mask as the others arrived, uncovering iron grey hair and a seamed, craggy face. For a fleeting instant, he seemed the personification of hundreds of years of weariness and grief; then he nodded past Bodie toward the busy examining rooms, and became just an old and tired man. "See to my nephew, and my son."

"Get those elevators unblocked, and take them up to surgery," Bodie called, and the sounds he heard told him more clearly than words that the hospital staff was wasting no time getting back into action. He nodded at the leader, and then dared to look around. Sister Agnes had collected an untidy pile of weapons, and shepherded the erstwhile terrorists both away from their temptation and out of the way of the galvanized medical staff. Bodie gestured with the uncocked pistol in his left hand for the leader to join the others, and then he took up a position between them and the discarded weapons. Still looking the leader in the eyes, still without a ready weapon in hand, he decided to take a chance, and raised his voice again to clearly reach the radio in his pocket.

"Three-seven to Alpha — we're secure, sir. Come on in — but do it gently. Don't scare the children."

He saw startlement and half-angry, half-chagrined realization sweep across the other young terrorists, the five boys and the girl — none of them could have been over twenty-five, and one could be barely fifteen — but the old man just nodded slowly, one professional recognizing another and confirming something already guessed. Seeing them all together and unmasked, Bodie could trace common features across all their faces. _What runs in your family? Oh, red hair, green eyes, terrorism — all the usual things ..._

The room suddenly filled with police and CI5, and all the bustle of a broken siege. All of the patients had been taken out, and the former hostages were being escorted away. The seven uninjured terrorists were being searched and cuffed, but with an odd degree of courtesy and consideration not entirely attributable to the hawk-eyed presence of Sister Agnes. _Can't remember ever arresting a whole family before._

Bodie suddenly felt very tired, and let the weapons in his hands slip to join the rest of the pile. Doyle was standing next to him when he looked up, slightly puzzled concern on his face.

"Y'okay, mate?"

"Yeah. Yeah." He woke up enough to realize that the radio in his pocket was still on, and he pulled it out and shut it off, looking around just in time to catch Cowley bearing down on him. He straightened unconsciously to attention.

"We'll discuss your choice of surrender protocols later, three-seven," Cowley started in ominously, and Bodie kept his eyes up and fixed on a vacant middle distance.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

" — but you did very well, all the same."

Bodie's shoulders relaxed, and then a firm pair of hands wrapped around his arm. He looked down to see Sister Agnes at his side.

"Will you introduce me to the man in charge, Bodie? I've a promise to keep." Her eyes danced from him to Cowley, making it apparent that she knew her target, and he smiled.

"Gladly, Sister. Sister Agnes, this is George Cowley, head of CI5. Mr. Cowley, Sister Agnes."

Cowley extended his hand, and found her grip a strong one.

"Allow me to extend our thanks, Sister. Your help was invaluable." His eyes lifted from hers to catch Bodie's, and he grinned. "I further understand that I have you to thank for keeping this scapegrace alive long enough to come to work for me. I usually appreciate that."

"You're most welcome, Mr. Cowley. I hope that I still am, after what I'm going to ask of you. I promised the Tuckers I'd go with them, see that all is proper. 'Tis not that I doubt you and yours, for I don't, but only that I gave my word, and I would see it true."

"Perfectly understandable." Behind Cowley's back, Doyle looked at Bodie and raised his eyebrows incredulously. They were both far more familiar with Cowley's usual truculence toward 'do-gooder busybodies;' his easy courtesy toward the nun was extraordinary. Bodie winked back at his partner, and then had to swiftly reassemble his businesslike face when Cowley glanced up. "I'm certain that Bodie would be pleased to escort you. Bodie, Doyle — you've a lot of loose ends to wrap up. By the numbers! I want nothing overlooked."

"Yes, sir," they chorused, and he gave them a curt nod before turning again to smile at the nun.

"I am delighted to meet you Sister. After you've seen to the Tuckers, I hope you'll drop in on me. Bodie knows the way."

"I'll do that, Mr. Cowley. Go with God."

Cowley nodded and walked off, and only then did Sister Agnes turn the full brilliance of her smile on Bodie. She faced him full-on, taking both his hands in hers, and looked him up and down, delight vivid on her animated face.

"By all that's holy — Bodie."

"Now, there's two thoughts I'd've never put together," Doyle muttered, but the others ignored him.

"I certainly never thought to find you here! I canna say how glad I am to find you still alive. All those years — I prayed for you, but never dreamed my prayers would be so answered. Truly, the Lord moves in mysterious ways."

"You'd know better than I, Sister. I'm afraid He and I still aren't on speaking terms."

"I don't believe that. You hear His voice; you just don't recognize it as His. But He does speak, and you do hear." She glanced at the room around them, and all of its recent events were caught in his eyes when she looked back at him. "How else do you explain what happened here? And don't tell me you were empty of prayer when I saw you in the corridor!"

"I can't argue with you, Sister," Bodie said, still smiling. "I never made it to Aquinas and Descartes, remember?"

She laughed and shook her head, and then reached up with one hand to catch the back of his neck and draw him down towards her. Obligingly, he stooped to let her kiss him on the brow.

"There is more rejoicing in heaven over the lamb who was lost and is found than over the ninety-and-nine who never strayed. Or in your case, over the wolfling. Peace be upon you, Bodie."

"After a fashion," he agreed, momentarily sober, and she let her hand slip to rest lightly on his cheek for a brief instant. She lowered her hand, and when they didn't move, Doyle ostentatiously cleared his throat. Bodie gave a little start and laughed. "Sister Agnes, my partner, Ray Doyle. Mind your manners, Ray!"

"I'm not the one who spent his formative years in the jungle," Doyle complained in mock protest, and then bowed gallantly to the elderly nun. "Pleased to meet you, Sister. Does this mean I'm finally going to learn something truthful out of my partner's oh-so-mysterious and frequently embellished past?"

She laughed, but shared a speaking look with Bodie before turning back to Doyle.

"That depends entirely on him, Mr. Doyle ..."

"Ray."

"Ray. His past is his own to tell or withhold ..." She was watching the currents flow between the two of them, and an imp of mischief lit her eyes. " But I can certainly tell you a bit about what he was like, once upon a time. On our way to wherever it is we're going?" she hinted broadly, and Bodie linked his arm with hers, preempting Doyle's attempt to do the same.

"Not too much of that," he warned, and they headed for the car on a wave of good cheer.

* * *

_Bodie folded the black shirt and laid it on top of the matching trousers and jacket, and then set the starched white collar atop the pile. He'd felt uneasy the whole time he'd worn the priest's garb, the two weeks it had taken to travel cautiously with Sister Agnes from Kisangana across the country and then into Angola, but now the camouflage fatigues felt alien. Even after two months, he still hadn't regained all the weight he'd lost in prison, and although Sister Agnes's friends had found the sort of things he'd asked for, none of it really fit any more._

_He cinched the web belt tight at his waist to take up some of the bagginess, slung the nearly empty pack over his shoulder, and then picked up the small pile of black cotton. When he opened the door, Sister Agnes turned at the sound, and something shifted in her eyes at the new image he presented._

_"Wolfling," she said, and although it had been her teasing name for him throughout his convalescence, hearing it now instead of his name gave him a pang, as if she had named what he was instead of recognizing him for himself. He suddenly felt much further away than just the length of a room._

_To cover the unexpected emotion, he raised the clothing in his hands, and then set it on the table beside the travel papers he'd removed before he changed._

_"Thank Father McCabe for me. I hope my version never causes him problems."_

_"You behaved yourself admirably, Bodie. I was very impressed." When he stayed by the table, uncertain of what to do next, she crossed to him and took his hands in hers, smiling with her habitual gentleness even though concern flooded her eyes. "You can manage, from here?"_

_He nodded._

_"Word's around, merc companies are hiring. I don't have papers at the moment, but there are units that'll take anyone who can fight. They're not the best, but beggars can't be choosers. Once I've made some money and gotten some contacts, I'll be able to get papers again, pick and choose a little more. And after that — who knows."_

_What he said made her sad; he saw pain flicker beneath the calm serenity of her face. Very gently, he squeezed her hands._

_"I'm sorry, Sister — but that's who and what I am. I told you that."_

_"I know. And I'm sorry, too, that you've seen no other road." She held his eyes for a moment, smiling and sad, and then looked down and freed her right hand from his grip to reach into the folds of her habit. "I do have one gift for you, though; something perhaps small and light enough for a soldier to carry." She pulled from some hidden pocket the slim volume of poetry by John Keats that he had read in the mission garden. He took it from her with a slightly unsteady hand._

_"'Tis one of the few things I brought to the mission with me, years ago." Her eyes sparked a little with mischief, offsetting a bit of the sorrow that lurked between them, and she couldn't stop a smile. "Of course, Keats was only English, so he wasn't truly home for me — but you, I think he might suit."_

_Bodie opened the book to the flyleaf. Up in the corner of the page, inscribed in a small but elegant hand, was the faded but still legible name 'Mary Catherine Frances O'Malley.' He tapped the name and raised his eyebrow at her._

_"This — was you?"_

_"Aye." Her smile was merry. "You're not the only one to have chosen the simplicity of only one name, don't you see. But I did it forty years ago."_

_Seized by a sudden impulse, he extended the book back to her._

_"Inscribe it to me, Sister — please?" He grinned. "That would be, 'William Andrew Phillip.' From one overly named person to another, just this once."_

_She took the book and crossed to the rickety little desk. He watched over her shoulder as she sat down, took up the old fountain pen lying there, tested it on the blotter, and then turned to the book. The handwriting was very nearly the same — a bit more angular, a little less flowing — as she put 'to' beneath her old name and then added Bodie's full name beneath that. Further down the flyleaf, she wrote, 'Bodie — the Lord bless and keep you, wolfling, and bring you safely home,' and then she signed it simply, 'Sister Agnes, Kisangana, 1967.' She blew on the ink to dry it, and offered him the book again._

_"Thank you, Sister." He tucked it carefully in his pack, and then let settling the pack back on his shoulder occupy his restless hands. "I'm afraid I don't have anything for you ..."_

_"How many times must I tell you, there are no debts between us? And you have given me something; I've seen a man I thought would die restored to health and walking free. It's hard to imagine a better gift than that."_

_He smiled, but shook his head._

_"I still owe you, Sister, because you did that, not me." He couldn't put it off any longer; it was time to leave. Something still felt unfinished, though, and the troubled sorrow was back in her eyes. He cast about for the right gesture, the right words to use, to say goodbye, and finally went awkwardly to one knee in front of her. "Bless me, Sister?" he asked hesitantly, following the example of who knew how many people he'd seen during their journey from Kisangana, and the joy that lit her face told him how much he'd pleased her. She crossed herself, and then rested her hands lightly on the crown of his head._

_"I commend Your son Bodie to Your care, Lord. His path is dark and his life is at risk; preserve him, Lord, and guide him to the Light. Keep him whole in heart and spirit, that he may find his way to peace. I ask this in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen." She sketched the sign of the cross in the air over his head with her right hand, and let the hand come to rest again on his hair. After the briefest of instants, she shifted her hands to frame his face, tilting his head so he looked up at her, and she bent forward to kiss his brow. "Go with God, Bodie. And never forget that you are loved."_

_"Goodbye, Sister," he said, and then he leaned forward quickly and kissed her on one wrinkled cheek. He stood abruptly and headed for the door, not looking back, so he did not see the hand that stole up to touch that cheek, or the tears that ran down it._

* * *

"Tucker's oldest son died in that shootout in Belfast three months ago." Pouring tea while he delivered his report, Doyle automatically added sugar to Bodie's cup without looking or asking, and Cowley saw Sister Agnes notice the action and smile. The four of them were gathered comfortably in Cowley's office.

"None of the others were IRA, near as we can tell, except for old Michael himself, and he'd left off the active rolls years ago, back when the kids were born. His wife didn't hold with it, told him to choose between the cause and her, and he chose her. But she died early last year, a stroke, and that's when the oldest boy joined up. After he died, the rest got up their Children's Crusade, and Michael came out of retirement." Doyle snorted. "I don't think the regular IRA even knew what they were up to, or if they did, they didn't believe it."

"One of the nephews served in the Gardai." Bodie picked up the narrative thread with the ease of long habit. "Eamon O'Neill. His unit trained with a joint riot control squad here — one of the combined police and Army teams — so he knew the layout of the base, where the armoury was, how it was secured. He's the one planned the munitions seizure. They hit the armoury, stocked up on Uzis and C4, and then planned their little display in London. Trouble was, he wasn't all that well trained, not for demolitions, anyway. He short-fused the charge and it blew up in their faces. They improvised from there."

"They lost all their explosives in the premature detonation?" Cowley asked.

"So they said," Doyle answered. "Their threat to blow up the hospital was pure bluff. We expect Forensics will be able to confirm that from the residues and blast pattern within a day or so. The rest of the missing guns and ammo have all been accounted for."

"So," Cowley said musingly. "Well, that will wrap up our involvement in the case. The two of you can start helping Murphy on the Anderson matter in the morning."

"Yes, sir." The two voices didn't totally coincide on their acknowledgment, but they were too close to distinguish.

"And is that it, then? So easily put paid and final?" There was more than curiosity but less than outright challenge in Sister Agnes's voice, and Cowley's answer came out measured and even.

"For us, Sister, for CI5, aye — it has to be. We're the Action Squad. Our brief is to handle the emergencies. Sorting out what happens after, that's for the Met and the Q.C.. Oh, we'll be called on to testify and we'll share all we know, but we've rarely the luxury of seeing how things finally come out. We've too much else to attend, and all of it urgent."

She listened to him with her head cocked and her eyes intent, as if weighing his honesty and sincerity, and then gave him a little nod.

"By your leave, Mr. Cowley, this time, 'twill be my brief as well, I think. These are lost souls, not villains."

"That determination is more in your line than mine, Sister, and I'll leave you to it. But I'll not say that you're wrong, and I'll not grudge you the effort." He glanced over at Bodie and smiled, very slightly. "Your last effort on my behalf turned out reasonably well. Not quite a silk purse from a sow's ear, but near enough. I'll not be surprised at any wonders you work with the Tucker family." He stood up, and extended his hand again. "I've been very glad to meet you, Sister Agnes, and I hope someday to have more time to spend. For now, I fear I've an appointment at the Ministry. I'm sure that Bodie will see you wherever you need to go, but there's no rush; you may stay in my office as long as you like."

Bodie and Doyle both rose when she did, and stood somewhat awkwardly as she clasped Cowley's hand in both of hers.

"You've been most gracious, Mr. Cowley, and I thank you. Peace be with you."

"And with you, Sister. That is a blessing none of us would ever refuse." Cowley collected his hat and coat, and gave her a little bow as he left.

Doyle shot Bodie a look, and snickered.

"A sow's ear."

"Bionic golly," Bodie returned affably.

"Jungle rat."

"Guttersnipe."

Sitting down again, the nun looked from one of them to the other.

"Is this a private game, or may anyone join?" she asked.

"Unlimited players, Sister, but the two of us hold the record," Bodie explained.

"Yeah, no one else in our league," Doyle added.

"I can see when I'm outclassed. I yield."

"Takes all the fun out of it." Doyle started to perch on the edge of Cowley's desk, but Bodie caught his eye, and after the barest hesitation, Doyle turned the move into a sweeping bow instead, capturing Sister Agnes's hand at the end of it and raising it to his lips. "Three is definitely a crowd where Bodie and a woman are concerned, Sister. It's been a pleasure. Maybe I can catch you without him, sometime?"

Her laugh was music.

"What will the Bishop think, that I've young men dancing attendance on me? May the Lord hold you safely in His hand, Ray, and you may come to see me any time. I should like to know Bodie's friends."

"So would I — assuming he's got any," Doyle said with a wicked grin at Bodie as he left.

As the door closed, Bodie still stood looking at it. Sister Agnes watched the tension in his shoulders and waited, but when he didn't turn back of his own accord, she shook her head and laced her fingers together in her lap.

"Your friends are good men, Bodie. I rejoice in them."

"So do I, Sister," he said at last, and only then turned to face her. She clenched her fingers at the bleakness of his expression, and her voice came very soft.

"Bodie, my heart, what is wrong?"

He struggled for words without success, and then finally shrugged and turned to Keats.

"'Forgive me that I have not Eagle's wings?'" he quoted, but made it a hesitant question instead of a true request. She came up out of the chair and put her hands on his arms.

"Are you so sure you lack them?" She shook him gently.

"War is still my business, Sister. You — wanted better from me."

"And you fear I'm disappointed in you?" She captured his eyes with her own, and slowly, deliberately, shook her head. She collected his hands in hers and clasped them tightly together. "Dear my son, you cannot disappoint me. And you're wrong, you know: whatever you may have fought for once, peace is your business now, or those misguided children would be dead. You do know what you seek, and where to look for it."

"That was mostly luck, and you. But you were right when you named me a wolf, Sister. You wouldn't — have liked what you'd seen, if things had gone wrong."

She reached up and placed a gentle hand along his cheek, her thumb across his lips to silence him.

"I should never like to see you or anyone pushed to violence, but we are not all of us given leave to spend our lives in peace. You who are the guardians of our peace pay that price for us. But as long as I see you take no joy in it, I have no fear for your soul, and you've no cause for shame in front of me."

"You live by the Commandments, Sister. I don't."

"Whatever men may say, I believe the Lord is not so narrow, to see in black and white. He sees what's in your heart, and your heart is not evil. It never was, or this would not have troubled you. Be at peace, Bodie. You have all my best regard, and always shall."

She felt his stiffness start to ease, and dared to smile.

"Now, laddie, we have full sixteen years to catch up on. Would it hurt your reputation, do you think, to be seen having dinner with an elderly little nun?"

"Win me points with the refined ones, it will," he said gallantly, making an effort at his usual humour and mostly succeeding. He offered her his arm, and she took it.

"Perhaps we could still catch your Ray Doyle to make it a threesome? The two of you could regale me with your exploits in one-upmanship."

He chuckled, and looked at her sideways.

"You're a very unusual nun, you know, Sister."

"Am I, now? I didn't think you knew enough of us to have a basis for comparison. I've obviously missed a lot, in all these years we've been apart. What company _have_ you been keeping, laddie?"

He couldn't help it; his laugh rang out, turning heads as he opened the door of Cowley's office and squired her through. The startled looks on the faces they passed — _Bodie, with a __nun_ — left him smugly plotting his strategy for dealing with the comments he'd surely get tomorrow. That was another thing they could do over dinner, as soon as they found Doyle. He grinned in anticipation.

Fully aware of his audience, he put his arm around the tiny old woman's shoulders to stop her in the hallway, and then he bent down and kissed _her_ on the brow before continuing down the corridor with her blushing on his arm and laughing in delight.

Let them just try to figure _that_.


End file.
